


Code Red

by Scrunyuns



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Age Difference, Cumshot, Dom Tom, Dom/sub, Dubiously Requited Love, Exhibitionism, Fair Warning: this is Horny but not necessarily Sexy, HR? dont know her, Hand Jobs, Height Differences, Huge dicks, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, PSA: please do not try bondage the 1st time u have sexual relations with ur unhinged boss, Praise Kink, Psychological Warfare during sex, Sub Greg, TW: Tomwamb Behavior, buddy (homoerotically), greg is a dilf chaser, in the universe of this fic greg is a megaslut, it’s not a Scrunyuns fic if its not equal parts akward/sad/horny, pwf (porn with feelings), references to Secretary (2002), set in the very narrow timeframe between the disastrous tomshiv honeymoon and tom being moved to ATN, tom saying GREG roughly 5000 times, welcome to my problematic Greg Secretly Kinda Likes It fic!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28333011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunyuns/pseuds/Scrunyuns
Summary: Greg can’t concentrate on his work. Tom offers a helping hand.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans, mentions of Shiv/Tom
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Code Red

_Better make this quick, or he might notice I’m gone and come looking for me. Wouldn’t be the first time._

It’s five thirty on a Friday afternoon and most people have gone home for the day. But Shiv is out of town for work, so Tom is working overtime this evening. The necessity for tying off loose ends at Parks before his transfer to ATN is a convenient excuse to hold off as long as he possibly can on going home to a cold and empty house. And of course, Tom working overtime means Greg is working overtime, too.

Right now, however, Tom’s young assistant is not technically working: He is taking care of a personal problem that has had him struggling to focus for the past hour and a half.

After checking all the stalls in the men’s bathroom, Greg chooses the one furthest from the exit and plops down on the toilet seat. He unzips his fly and sets about his task. _You really shouldn’t be doing this, Gregory,_ a judgy voice tells him. He’s had plenty of practice ignoring this voice, though, over the years.

The act is really not optimal without any better form of lubricant than just plain ol’ spit - but hey, if needs must. And by God, does he _need._

This is all Tom’s fault, really, for barging into his cubicle every two hours to give him this confusing cocktail of praise and insults, equal parts carrot and stick. For elbowing his way into Greg’s personal space and touching him any chance he gets. It’s been worse than usual; Tom is a tactile person on the best of days, but since he returned from his honeymoon he’s been extra grabby. Whether this is a symptom of him being anxious and excited about his impending transfer to ATN or because of some residual weirdness between him and Shiv after their wedding, that’s impossible to say. All Greg knows for sure is that he is, once again, the inevitable receptacle for all of Tom’s frustrations.

He supposes he should just be grateful that all this attention is translating into PDA, rather than the mistreatment bordering on abuse that he’s come to expect by now. And they’re not wildly inappropriate touches, as such, simply straddling that fine line of what’s a friendly gesture and what’s sexual harassment; a palm at the small of his back, a gentle squeeze of his upper arm.

Truth be told, Greg would’ve called up HR ages ago if it weren’t for the fact that he actually kind of likes it.

It shouldn’t turn him on - _Tom_ shouldn’t turn him on. Granted, he is sort of hot in a way that only middle aged men are (which, as it happens, is Greg’s favorite flavor) and his voice is the kind that sends a chill down his spine… but he is also his boss. Not only that, he’s family. Plus, Tom is kind of a dick to him most of the time, and so Greg isn’t sure if he even _likes_ him, just like he still isn’t sure he likes this job. By all accounts, it doesn’t make sense.

And yet here he is, dick out at his place of work, touching himself to the mental image of his boss. Pathetic.

The touches, the occasional compliments - hell, even the scathing critiques about his intelligence and aptitude, it all really gets Greg going. On an objective, intellectual level, he hates all this toxic frat boy hazing. But it somehow gets his blood pumping too; while Greg’s brain likes just being left alone, Greg’s _dick_ apparently likes it when Tom is mean, or overbearing, or needy.

 _Must be the relentless showering of attention,_ he ponders. _Shit… does this mean I have daddy issues?_

Greg decides not to dwell on what it all means, and instead focus on the lingering memory of Tom’s hand sliding down his back. It had made him shudder, but with a sense of thrill rather than disgust, like it should have been. Everything Tom does has that effect on him, it seems. _God help me._

Now he’s getting close just thinking about Tom giving him a good chewing out, pinning him to the wall with nothing more than his domineering aura and that glacial stare of his.

A moan in the shape of a name escapes his lips before he can stop it.

“Tom…”

“Yes?” a voice calls back, reverberating against the sleek walls of the bathroom.

  
_Fuck!_

“Hello? Greg?”

Greg scrambles to tuck himself back into his pants as brisk footsteps start to move closer. They finally come to a halt in front of his door.

“Greg..?”

He can’t answer. He is frozen solid. _Oh no oh no oh my god-_

  
  


The door is suddenly flung open.

  
  


“Shit..!” Greg exclaims. “Hey, what the fuck, Tom?!”

“Whaddaya mean, ‘what the fuck’?!” Tom all but yells, eyes wide as saucers. “What the fuck, _you!_ Why don’t you lock the goddamn door, Greg, ya big pervert?!”

“I- I thought I had? It was locked. Like, I’m sure I did it, I remember turning the lock-“

A look of sudden realization falls over Tom’s face, and he laughs.

“Oh Greg, you boob.” He starts fiddling with the lock by way of a demonstration. “It turns the other way, see?”

“Oh, hah…”

“Yeah, fucking counter intuitive bullshit design… after they installed them it took me like two full weeks to realize I’d been unloading with the fucking door unlocked, ahaha.”

Taking this moment of levity as a chance to cover his shame, Greg crosses his arms awkwardly over his lap.

“Oh good, so it wasn’t just me!” he smiles.

“No, but you’ve been here quite a while longer than two weeks though, haven’t you, Greg? Almost as if you _wanted_ to get caught, huh?”

Tom laughs again, a bit more viciously this time, and his assistant laughs with him, shrugging sheepishly. Greg is just glad his boss hasn’t noticed his erection.

“So, like, how- how long were you in here?” Greg asks in a tone of voice that he hopes will come off as inconspicuous. “I didn’t, uh, didn’t even hear you come in.”

His boss is no dunce, though. Tom may be a bit of a sad fool, but for all his faults he’s still fairly observant. The goofy grin falls from his face as he finally catches the whiff of foul play, and he peers down his nose at Greg’s half-open pants.

He crosses his arms and steps forward, into the toilet stall.

“Greeeeeg..?”

The way he is drawing out his name, Greg knows he’s in for it. Tom tries to look him in the eye, but now his poor assistant can only stare down at his shoes.

“Were you _masturbating_ on company time?”

Greg knows there’s no use trying to deny it - he’s sitting here with his pants on, atop a closed toilet lid, with a sweaty forehead, an unzipped fly and a huge bulge in his boxers - so he settles for damage control instead.

“Yeah okay,” he sighs. “I just thought, like… maybe I’d be more productive?”

“Uh-huh.”

Tom does not sound convinced. His jaw is set, chin jutting out, his scrutinizing eyes darting back and forth between Greg’s pathetic, pleading face and the embarrassing situation in his pants.

“If- if I took care of it, I mean,” Greg continues. “Like… when I get, um, _excited_ like this, I just can’t concentrate on anything? You know? On the task at hand, as- as it were.”

“Right,” Tom says, looking thoughtful for a moment. “Well, what exactly had gotten you so worked up then, Greg? Going over invoices? Handling my appointments? Taking fucking coffee orders?”

Greg hangs his head.

“Please, dude, don’t make me say it.”

Tom stands there for a few moments, quietly judging him. It seems like a lifetime before he finally speaks.

“Well, this is all highly inappropriate behavior, Greg. Doing this in a public bathroom... how grotty. That’s truck stop shit, man.”

Greg can’t see, eyes still fixed on the floor, but it kind of sounds like his boss is smirking. Whether that’s good or terrible, who can tell.

The embarrassment is overwhelming. He can feel the blood rushing both to his face and his cock. And then, to make matters worse, Tom says, in a voice so velvety soft that Greg thinks he might just come in his pants right then and there:

“What am I supposed to do with you, huh?”

Greg knows he should be worried about his job, and he absolutely is, but mostly he just feels really overheated. He feels like he’s back in high school being chastised by Mr. Peters, the silver fox history teacher, for smoking pot in the little boy’s room. A chill runs out to his fingertips and up his spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake, right up to the crown of his head.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stammers at the floor. “I just thought, like... everyone had gone home…”

  
  


The tips of his boss’ meticulously polished Oxfords come into view. Greg looks up to see Tom’s fly, just mere inches from his face.

“Tell you what,” Tom starts, clearing his throat as he straightens his indigo silk tie and gazes up at the ceiling briefly, either searching for the right words or trying to create dramatic effect. “If you need a hand, Greg… come and see me. My office.”

Greg swallows.

“What?”

“You heard.”

“Are you, like, joking right now, dude? Are you razzing me again?”

Tom puts three fingers in the air.

“Scouts honor, Greg.”

_Holy shit._

“Wouldn’t that be like, extremely inappropriate, though?”

“Oh? Is that right, Mr. Toilet Tugger?” Tom jabs. “I think we’re well past the point of propriety now, Greg. Don’t you?”

  
  


When Tom turns on his heel and leaves the bathroom, Greg lets out a shuddering breath that he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding.

—

_Had I heard him right? Had I misunderstood?_

When Greg finally skulks back to his cubicle, he feels like he’s walking around in a fever dream. Could it really have happened? It must have, because his dick is still painfully hard, straining against the zipper of his pants. _Thank God nobody’s here to see me like this. Well, nobody but Tom._

He looks over to his boss’ office; he can see Tom in there, but he can’t really make out what he’s doing or how he looks, not through the frosted glass.

_Should I..?_

He decides to get closer so that he can sneak a peek over the top, to see if perhaps Tom is jerking off in there. But no, Tom is just sitting there staring at his computer screen, occasionally clicking the mouse and tapping keys. _Is he faking?_ Greg wonders. _Is he just pretending to work, waiting for me to come in?_

Four times he passes by Tom’s office, acting as if he’s heading to and from the copy room. And each time he goes by he is less stealthy, becomes more and more obvious about trying to get a look inside. When he comes back for a fifth round of reconnaissance, it seems Tom’s finally had it: He shoots up from his chair and marches over to the door.

Greg is a deer caught in the headlights, his panicked mind unable to settle on an escape route before he collides with the barreling truck that is his unstable boss.

“Hey!” Tom snaps. “You think I don’t see you lurking outside my door like some Peeping Tom fuck? I don’t pay you to loiter, Greg. So just shit or get off the pot.”

“Uhhh..?”

Tom then seems to school his expression into something more patient, more civil.

“I am saying,” he starts, his voice now softer, yet still brimming with frustration. “Come in if you wish to come in, Greg.”

“Oh, I um… okay.”

He is still not sure if he’s being toyed with or not.

Hesitantly, Greg steps inside his boss’ office. Tom looks him up and down before he stops Greg with a gentle hand against his chest.

“Hold on.”

He seems somewhat apprehensive now, which is an odd look for him. Perhaps he hadn’t expected Greg to actually take him up on the offer? Maybe he’d just been posturing, doing his sexually aggressive boss bully bit like he always does, without regard for the potential of Greg actually reciprocating?

It’s not that he hasn’t seen Tom flustered before, it’s just that Greg is not usually the cause of the flustering.

“So before we do this,” Tom starts, “I just, uh… I want you to know that this is simply an invitation. Meaning if you were to decline, that’s not a… a fireable offence. Okay? Nothing like that. No, uh, no pressure. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m not like… Lester. You know?”

_Jesus... he sounds like me. Guess this must be for real, then._

“No, yeah, I get it,” Greg nods.

“This is less of a boss-to-employee thing and more of a… friend-to-friend thing.”

“Yeah, m-hm.”

_Friends?_ Greg ponders. _Are we friends?_ “We have a bond,” he remembers Tom saying, months back. Greg is not going to forget about that night anytime soon. It had left him feeling pretty good about himself, and, for a change, about Tom. And since then… yeah, perhaps you could call them friends. Of a sort.

“Let’s call it…” Tom muses with an index finger to his lip, “-a gentlemen’s agreement. Alright?”

“Cool, man,” Greg replies, starting to feel a tiny bit impatient.

Now Tom has this anxious little smile on his face; tentative but visibly excited. It’s oddly endearing.

“And you do still… want to? Yes?”

_God, what’s with all this preemptive bullshit. Just touch my dick already, man!_

Greg nods eagerly in response, sucking on his bottom lip. This makes Tom smile wide, a sort of moonstruck look on his face that is usually reserved for his wife.

_Ah, fuck… Shiv._ In his flurry of excitement, Greg had almost forgotten about her. And as much as he wants his dick touched, he feels like he owes it to his cousin to check - even if she is a cheater herself, and probably doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on with regards to what Tom does with his dick. Greg has never been in an open relationship himself, but he’s pretty sure family (extended or otherwise) is a huge dealbreaker.

“Um, what about Shiv, though?” he asks. “Like, won’t she, uh..?”

A strange expression comes over Tom’s face; his eyes almost seem to go a shade darker, just hearing her name.

“Don’t you worry about Shiv. We have an agreement, her and I.”

“Okay yeah, uh-huh. Cool. Got it. So like, she won’t think it’s weird at all that her husband and her cousin-“

“Have a seat, Greg.”

He gestures to the chair behind his desk, pointedly ignoring any further questioning about his wife.

“O-on your chair?” Greg stutters.

Tom nods.

It feels decidedly odd, sitting in Tom’s chair. It is not an extraordinary chair by any measure, just one of those ergonomic minimalist office chairs you see all the time around these parts… but this chair is Tom’s. And so, for Greg, sitting on it feels like an intrusion. Like he’s not worthy.

“You comfy there, buddy?”

“Yeah, uh-huh. Very nice.”

His boss is circling him like a predator, and Greg certainly feels like prey. It’s maddening. His whole body feels like it’s full of Mexican jumping beans. And now he can see the outline of Tom’s sizable cock, too, through the delicate fabric of his slacks; it’s starting to fill out, beckoning him. Greg wants nothing more than to get his mouth on that beast.

He notices that his palms are getting sweaty, and wipes them on his pants.

“Nobody’s gonna come in though, right?” he asks.

“Who would come in, Greg? Everyone’s gone.”

“What about, like, security?”

“They don’t do their rounds ‘till seven.”

“And, um, my cousins? Like they have a tendency to just barge into rooms…”

“Shiv’s out of town, and Roman and Kendall never set foot down here if they can help it. Now will you fucking relax?”

“I just-“

“Listen, if you don’t wanna do this, there’s the fucking door.”

Greg sighs; he doesn’t want to go. He _does_ want this. He’s just a bit worried, is all. If anyone finds out, they’re gonna be fucked on so many levels.

“There aren’t like, cameras, right?”

“Not in here.”

“Won’t, uh- won’t people be able to see me, though? Us? Out there?”

He gestures towards the window, and Tom scoffs.

“Who’s gonna see us, Greg? All the other businessmen in the other office buildings, also fucking their assistants? Come on.”

Greg nervously tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. He can feel his temperature rising again; he thought he’d come in for a quick handjob, nobody had said anything about _fucking_. Not that he’s entirely opposed to the idea, of course, but still. 

“There could be, like, photographers-“

“Ah, yes, those pesky paps,” Tom interrupts, sarcasm dripping from his every word, “from all the tabloids who just can’t wait to get the latest scoop on _Cousin Greg._ ”

“Well, what about you?” Greg asks. “Like, you’re Shiv’s husband-“

Tom crouches down, coming eye to eye with his spooked assistant.

“Greg. You know, you’re really starting to bore me.” He points towards the magnificent view outside his window. “Look out there. What’s that?”

“Uh…”

“It’s the golden hour. Which means right about now, the outside of this glass will be nothing but a shimmering reflection of the glorious Manhattan skyline. These imaginary paparazzi that you’re so worried about? They have all gone home for the day. Okay?”

“Um. Okay.”

“Now quit your fucking Canadian handwringing and get your cock out, bud.”

“Yes, Sir…” Greg complies.

Tom makes a noise of appeasement; he seems to like that, being called Sir. _Of course he does._

“Attaboy.”

While Greg fumbles with his fly, Tom circles back to stand behind him, looming over him like he’ll sometimes do when he comes to visit his assistant’s humble little cubicle.

“Holy fuck,” Tom says when he finally gets a look at Greg’s cock in all its glory. “I suspected you were gonna be big, but… that there’s a third leg, buddy.”

The compliment is sweet nectar; Greg blushes and his dick throbs, begging to be touched. 

“Now, young Gregory,” Tom starts, his voice like a song as he works open the knot on Greg’s tie. “I believe I heard my name in there. Yes?”

“Hm?”

“In the bathroom. You said my name.”

Tom’s clever fingers are working away at the buttons of his assistant’s shirt. His face is so close now, Greg can feel Tom’s hot breath on his ear.

“Uh…”

“You’ve been walking around these offices with a big chubby in your panties for me this whole time, haven’t you, you little cockgobbler?”

“Mm,” is all Greg can manage, biting his lip to keep a string of pathetic words from spilling out of his mouth.

“I fucking knew it.”

Greg gasps when Tom slips a hand inside his shirt. He lets it roam over his assistant’s chest, occasionally rubbing a nipple to get it hard. The other hand rests menacingly at his throat.

 _So soft,_ Greg thinks idly. _He probably moisturizes a lot._

“Moaning my name while you paw at yourself in the toilets like some desperate slut… you love this, huh Greg? Being under me?”

He doesn’t, really. On a professional level, Greg wants nothing more than to just get out from under this madman - but on a sexual level, though, this is amazing. Better than anything. Better than weed, better than cajun chicken linguini, most certainly better than deep fried ortolan. And he hates himself for it.

_Perhaps if Tom wasn’t so fucking good looking…_

An ancient memory springs to mind, tucked away in the dusty attic of his brain until this very moment:

He has just entered college, he is high as a kite and alone in his dorm room, looking for something good to torrent. He stumbles upon Secretary, remembering it as that movie everyone had been whispering about when it had first come out some years before. His mom hadn’t allowed him to watch it back then, but he is old enough now.

So Greg watches, and he is enthralled. When it’s finished, confusion sets in; he knows it’s fucked up, but there’s something to that dynamic. He wants it. And, much to his surprise, he doesn’t really want to be the handsome rich guy in the suit - he wants to be the hot secretary bent over a desk by the handsome rich guy in the suit.

And now, ten years down the line, he’s finally got his wish. Well, more or less; obviously he’s no Maggie Gyllenhaal, but Tom sure is a handsome rich guy in a suit.

  
  


Greg cries out when his boss pinches his nipple, and Tom laughs.

“Ohhhh, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Too hard?”

“Why don’t you use those hands to get me off instead, huh?” Greg blurts out, surprising even himself with his own assertiveness.

“Oh, is that how it is?” Tom asks, amused. “Cousin Greg is making demands now?”

“Sorry, I just- you promised-“

“I didn’t promise you shit, Greg.” Tom loosens his own tie and pulls it off in one smooth motion. “Well, since we find ourselves in the realm of making demands… suck me off, and then perhaps I might deign to touch you.”

Greg huffs an incredulous laugh while Tom takes his silky designer tie and starts wrapping it around his assistant’s skinny wrist, securing it to the armrest.

“What’s this?” Greg asks, but he doesn’t move.

“I don’t want you touching yourself,” Tom explains. “If you’re gonna cum all over my expensive rug, you’re doing it on _my_ fucking terms.”

“Okay?”

“Gonna teach you some fucking patience, you ungrateful millennial.”

Tom slips Greg’s tie from around his neck and does the same thing to his other arm.

“If you’re not okay with it,” he says, and then puts on this weird booming voice; “Speak now, or forever hold your peace! Ahaha.”

Greg shrugs. Was this part of the initial deal? No. But is he turned off by the idea? Also no. Actually, rather the opposite… it’s risky, but it’s so fucking hot. It’s very Secretary. And he knows Tom, trusts him. He can trust him, right? Greg truly believes that he wouldn’t do anything to hurt him. Well, at least not while he’s defenseless.

_If I ask him to stop, he’ll stop, won’t he?_

“Um, I feel like we need, you know, a safe word?” Greg pipes up.

“Sure.”

“Ummm… ‘banana’?” Greg thinks aloud. “No, that’s stupid.”

“Just say ‘code red’, Greg.”

“Okay yeah,” he nods. “Code red, gotcha. Affirmative.”

Tom rolls his eyes as he finishes the intricate knot on the tie around his assistant’s left wrist.

Greg has to marvel at the vast chasm of difference in fabric quality between Tom’s tie and his own. Not all that surprising, really, seeing as he got this synthetic little number off a sales rack at Target while Tom’s luxurious indigo silk tie was probably crafted by some kind of hundred year old tailoring virtuoso on a mountaintop in Northern Italy. Or something like that.

“Not too tight?” Tom asks with a tilt of his head, admiring his handiwork.

“No, it’s okay.”

“Good.” Tom undoes his zipper. “Now, get to work, my little snake charmer. Charm my snake.”

Tom’s cock is not quite as long as his own, however the girth is really something else. It’s a mouth-watering sight, and Greg wants a taste, but it is also quite daunting.

“Dude, like I don’t know, uh, how I’m gonna fit all of that… like, my mouth is kinda small-“

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll manage,” Tom decides for him. “Just unhinge your jaw, ahaha.”

He has to bend forward somewhat in order to reach Tom with his mouth. His boss steadies him with one hand at the back of his head and the other under his chin. It’s an oddly soothing thing.

Greg wets his lips, says a quiet prayer, and goes to town.

“Fuuuuuuck…” Tom groans.

He sinks deeper, almost all the way to the hilt in one stroke. Greg is thankful that he was already salivating generously, otherwise this brave endeavor might’ve ended in a coughing fit. He is also thankful for all the cocks he’d sucked during his brief stint in college (he’d really eroded his gag reflex during those nine wild months).

And as suspected, Tom tastes and smells absolutely amazing; clean as a whistle, while still distinctly male. You can say a lot of things about Tom Wambsgans, but apparently you can’t accuse him of not staying on top of his downstairs situation.

“Mmm, yeah. Just like that, Greg, just like that… good boy.”

Tom tilts Greg’s chin up and locks eyes with him. Smiles.

“You are so fucking cute.”

Greg moans. He can feel his cock dripping with precum now. He loves being bombed with praise and affection like this when he’s sucking a guy off, loves how Tom is looking at him right now.

_But_ _God, when is he going to touch me, though?_

  
Tom suddenly looks thoughtful.

“Hmm. Now that I think about it… actually, maybe it’s six o’clock.” 

When Greg pulls back, Tom’s cock springs out of his mouth with a wet pop.

“What?”

“Security rounds. I think it’s six, not seven.”

Greg looks up at the large clock on the wall behind Tom, sees the little hand almost touching 6 and the big hand creeping up on 12.

Panic sets in.

“Tom-!”

“Oh, live a little, Gregory,” his boss scoffs. “Don’t you get even a little bit turned on at the thought of getting caught? Huh? For the world to see what a cheap little tart you are?”

“No I don’t, Tom!”

“Oh, come on!” Tom laughs with a maniacal glint in his eyes. “The danger is the spice that makes this sauce so tasty! Yum yum! Eat up, Greg!”

“Let me go, Tom! Code red! Code red!”

Greg starts struggling against his restraints, to no avail, and Tom grabs his face in both hands.

“Hey Greg, relax,” he chuckles. “I’m joking.”

“Huh?” Greg whimpers, scared and confused.

“It’s seven. They start their rounds at seven. I swear on my mother’s life, okay?”

Greg lets out a massive sigh of relief as Tom pats his head reassuringly. His heart is pounding so hard, it feels like it’s going to bust right out of his ribcage and catch the first Greyhound back to Canada.

“A-are you sure?” he asks, still half panicking. “Like, what if you’re wrong, what if it actually _is_ six, though?”

“No seriously, it’s seven,” Tom says, stroking Greg’s cheek to soothe him. “Cross my heart. I work past seven all the time, I should know.”

“But-”

“I was just fucking with you, okay?”

Greg slumps back in the chair, frowning.

“Dude, that’s like... so not cool.”

“God, your face, though,” his boss titters. “Priceless.”

“It’s not funny, Tom!”

“It is a little funny, though, Greg.”

It’s not funny at all, really, not even a little bit. He should probably tell Tom to go fuck himself. But unfortunately for Greg, his cock is still rock hard - probably even more so now, as he is prone to fear boners - and only Tom Wambsgans can help him with that. He desperately needs to be touched, and only Tom’s touch will do.

“Just… just give me back your fucking dick, man.”

“Gladly.”

  
  


This time, when Greg swallows him, Tom finally reaches down to touch his assistant’s aching cock - his way of apologizing, presumably.

“Mmph-!”

“Feels good, huh buddy?”

“Mh-hm…”

Damn right it feels good! His eyes have rolled to the back of his head, that’s how fucking choice this is. Tom certainly knows what he’s doing. Plus, while Greg isn’t sure exactly how long it’s been since he last saw a hand around his cock that wasn’t his own, it’s certainly been a grip since he’s gotten any. And God, Tom’s hand is so soft and warm… 

Now Greg is thrusting up into that fist, desperate to get more friction as he moans around Tom’s thick cock, inhaling his boss’ manly scent.

“Ah-ah-ah!” Tom scolds. “Patience.”

Frustrated, Greg decides to focus on giving an enthusiastic blow job instead.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Tom laughs. “You greedy little cocksucker, you… like a pig at the troth, aren’t ya? Ready to gobble up my cum like it’s a spunk eating contest at the county fair, huh Greg?”

Of course. Tom doesn’t seem to be capable of talking like a normal human being even when he’s having a regular conversation - why would his dirty talk be any different?

  
  


Tom grabs a fistful of hair and starts really fucking his assistant’s throat. _A bit rude,_ Greg thinks, _but I guess that’s in keeping with the Wambsgans brand._ He doesn’t protest, just allows himself to be manhandled. His neck was getting tired anyway.

Truth be told, he’s always liked it this way; less pressure to perform, on his part. This was always the way with all those closeted DILFs in the suburb where he used to live before he moved to New York, the shifty-eyed ones from Grindr that he’d meet up with at truck stops or in mall toilets; most of them just wanted some cute young thing to boss around, and Greg was happy to let them. And he is happy now, to let Tom live out this fantasy of being one hundred percent in charge.

 _Poor guy probably needs this,_ Greg reasons. _Shit, maybe I need it too._

He has to admit, it’s flattering; his boss’ clawing, grasping hands in his hair and on his body, the taking and demanding, speak to a lust so desperate and so real, you can’t help but feel special - perhaps even cherished.

Tom’s hips are now moving in time with the hand on Greg’s cock, pounding away like his life is depending on it. It feels too good, so sick and dirty and wrong, and Greg loses himself in it.

He can feel the pressure building now, breathing hard through his nose as his body starts to shake. Tom catches on quick.

“Yeah... come for me.”

Finally Greg peaks, spasming in the chair and whimpering around the heft of Tom’s cock.

“Nice,” Tom says, tilting Greg’s head back to get a good look at him while he rides out his orgasm. “You look so fucking hot like this...”

Staring into his assistant’s puppy dog eyes, Tom resumes chasing his own pleasure. As Greg spills his last drops, Tom starts thrusting with renewed vigor into his wet, soft mouth.

“This is what being rich is all about, Greg,” he says, his voice breathless and thick with lust. “Facefucking your pretty assistant after hours.”

Even after his explosive climax, Greg’s cock stirs at this comment; he loves the praise, loves everything about this, loves being the ‘pretty assistant’. The idea of Tom even thinking of him as ‘pretty’ is just exhilarating.

Greg moans again, and the vibrations in his throat are the last drop, sending Tom over the edge. Now he throws his head back, hips jerking, hands clutching his assistant’s shoulders.

“I’m gonna-“

They lock eyes again, just as Greg feels something slick and salty coating the inside of his mouth.

And then Tom’s voice comes, breathless and stuttering:

“I- I love you, Greg-”

  
  


_You what?!_

  
  


Eyes like saucers, Greg twists out of his boss’ grip and pulls away just in time for a second round of Tom’s hot load to come splashing all over his face.

“W-What, dude?” he splutters, squinting against the spurts of cum.

Lost in his orgasm, Tom jerks himself for the last of it. He braces himself against his assistant’s shoulder and grimaces as the final few drops of cum hits Greg’s chin, dripping down and onto his pants.

“Ahh… fuuuuuuck…” he groans. 

Greg is absolutely shellshocked.

“What was that, Tom?” he asks, wide eyed and breathless. “What you just said? Just now? Huh?”

Tom waves him off.

“What? I didn’t say anything.”

He can’t seem to meet Greg’s eye as he tucks himself back into his pants.

“Yeah, you- you did, though!” Greg protests.

“It was nothing. Shut up.”

“But y-“

“I said shut up, Greg!”

Greg blinks back at him, confounded.

“You said you lov-“

“Get the fuck out of my office, Greg!” Tom bellows.

“Well I can’t, really!” Greg yells back as he struggles against the ties around his wrists, demonstratively. “Like, I’m stuck in this fucking chair, dude!”

Tom swears a blue streak as he starts working on the knots.

“Goddammit, fucking- fuck…”

They won’t budge. He’s tied them too tight.

“Fuck!” Tom shouts, his voice cracking.

“You can’t, uh-?”

“No, I can’t get them open, Greg, okay?!”

A heavy silence descends; the sexy atmosphere from before has now turned like a glass of milk in the hot sun. _Not very Secretary,_ Greg thinks to himself.

Tom pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, before he flips around and starts frantically rifling through his desk drawers for anything that he might use to cut the ties.

“Hey, Tom,” Greg tries, while his boss is still too busy upending his drawers to shout at him. “Uh… like I think we should just talk about it-“

Tom spins around with a pair of golden scissors in his hand and a wild look in his eyes.

“I said shut your fucking mouth, Greg.”

Greg flinches and tries to shrink himself as much as he possibly can.

“Please… please don’t stab me, Tom.”

His manic boss stares back at him for a few seconds, bewildered by this plea for mercy, before he realizes he’s brandishing a pair of huge, rather sharp scissors.

Greg is holding his breath, eyes shut, as he feels cool metal sliding against the skin on his wrist. He can hear the unmistakable sound of scissors cutting through fabric, and suddenly his left arm is free.

He breathes a sigh of relief.

“You know, Greg,” Tom begins, his voice unsteady as the scissors cut into the tie around Greg’s other wrist, “I probably _should_ stab you… leave no witnesses, right? Ha ha.”

Tom frees Greg’s right arm, and watches solemnly as his traumatized assistant rubs his sore wrists.

“Alright, Greg,” he mutters. “Dismissed.”

Greg bolts up from the chair and makes a beeline for the door.

—

_God… this stuff really fucking sticks, huh._

He has finally managed to get all of Tom’s cum off his face, but the stains on his clothes are a little more persistent.

Greg glares at his own reflection in the mirror as he buttons up his shirt and flattens down his hair. “You dumb fucking slut,” he mutters to himself. “Couldn’t keep it in your stupid pants, huh? Couldn’t have just gone home and rubbed one out like a normal person. You just had to go and suck your psycho boss’ dick, didn’t ya? Idiot.”

And now, what? How can he face Tom at work or family dinners, after that hideous sideshow? 

  
  


_“I love you, Greg.”_

Unbelievable. Should he resign? Tuck his tail between his legs and head back to Canada? Is that the best course of action here? Or should he just pretend as though nothing ever happened? Go on with his life, and allow Tom to go on with his, messed up and sad as it is?

A part of him actually feels bad for Tom... and another, quieter part of him, had been sort of jazzed to hear those three little words.

_Maybe I ought to reach out._

Suitcase in hand, Greg lingers outside Tom’s office. His boss is standing in front of one of the large windows, hands clasped behind his back, staring wistfully out at the city below as dusk settles and the city lights start to come on outside.

Taking a deep breath, Greg opens the heavy glass door - just a crack to pop his head in.

“Hey Tom?” he calls out. “I’m gonna, uh, head out now.”

“Alright, Greg.”

“You, uh… you staying here, or?”

“M-hm.”

“You don’t wanna, like, um-“

“No, Greg,” Tom shakes his head. “No thanks. I actually have a lot to do here, so…”

Tom’s voice is calm and soft, but it also has this odd, strangled sort of quality to it. Like he’s holding back a sob.

Greg is quiet for a bit, carefully weighing the next few words out of his mouth.

“You’re sure you’re okay, though, right? You’re not gonna like… jump or- or anything?”

He gets one of Tom’s trademark barking laughs, but this time it’s entirely mirthless - bitter, even.

“Hah! I’m sure, Greg.”

“Okay so, like, I’ll see you… Monday, then?”

Tom crosses his arms over his chest, hugging himself, still refusing to turn and look at his assistant.

“Uh-huh. See ya, Greg.”

_Perhaps a different approach is in order._

“ATN, huh? Exciting?”

“Sure. Yeah.”

The silence hangs like an iron curtain between the two of them. Greg doesn’t know what to say. Is there anything he can say? He just wants to go over to Tom, to put his arms around him and-

“Aren’t you going?”

“Yeah, no, I am,” Greg replies, against his own wishes. “Well, um… have a good weekend, I guess.”

“You too, Greg.”

Closing the door carefully behind him, Greg heads down the hallway to the elevator.

On the way down, the elevator dings at the 14th floor and an older gentleman in a grey suit steps in, one of the last stragglers of the day.

Greg nods hello, but the man doesn’t say a word. He starts making these sniffing noises though, either snuffling from a cold or, God forbid, smelling the air to try and identify the scent of spunk that is no doubt clinging to Greg right now... on his skin, his clothes, in his hair.

Shame bubbles up inside him like a boiling pot.

Out on the street, he almost gets mowed down by a cyclist while staring back up at the office building. There’s only one lit window, and he thinks he can make out Tom’s silhouette.

  
  


_Man… Monday is gonna be so fucked._

**Author's Note:**

> once again, thats a lot of damn words for a fic abt just two clowns jizzing everywhere huh


End file.
